Today is has been boring. Boring and rainy, although that adjective isn't even enough to distinguish it from other days, after the apocalyptic floods we've had this summer.
All day I have been reminded of another day, last August, after the excitement of Buxton and Barcelona, when it also rained boringly and indistinctively all day. I had Cousin Penny staying with me, and we went to Seven Stories and later made a cake. The cake fell into a thousand pieces, and the Hummingbird Bakery recipe for icing made enough icing for three thousand cakes, and we ate icing and cake for tea until we both felt sick. The next day I packed Penny off back to Bisbrooke, or Cowes, or whichever home-from-home she was returning to that time and I took the best pieces of cake and the big bottle of Bombay Sapphire I had bought at the airport round to Matt's house to watch Dr Who and G&S dvds, and Kayleigh and I polished off most of the gin and dragged the boys to play on the climbing frame at 2 a.m.
Having spent the whole day gawping uselessly at my laptop, this evening I took myself out for a walk in the nice bracing drizzle, along the secret path I discovered last week.
If you're waiting for the point of this blog post, there isn't one. I was just remembering. Maybe there was more to this when I was composing it in my head as I walked in the drizzle, but then I got excited by gravy and it all went out of my head.